Ancestors
by Ruby Rosetta Red
Summary: An AU one shot. Mitchell and George have a revealing somewhat drunken conversation at the Pink House one night. Two years later a grieving George has the weirdest of encounters when he pays his respects the only way he knows how. Rated T for language.


**This is a one shot that came to me this morning whilst in the middle of my regular Friday morning routine which is shopping after dropping my daughter off at school. Given that next Sunday is Remembrance Sunday, this is an AU 'What If' type of a one shot based around it, kind of. We don't know much about Mitchell's life prior to his recruitment to the 'dark side' and there are parts of his life post recruitment that we don't know about and are free to speculate upon. Like i said, this is AU, a 'what if' and probably completely and utterly impossible but heck this is Being Human, nothing is impossible is it?...is it?**

** The characters of John Mitchell, George Sands, Nina Pickering and mentioned in passing Annie Sawyer belongs to Toby Whithouse and his crew. The idea for this one shot and any unfamiliar characters are my own. Love to hear your thoughts, thanks! :)**

* * *

><p><strong>Ancestors.<strong>

_**The Past…**_

He looks up at the high arched stone ceiling, then at the grandly colourful stained glass windows above his head and he swallows slowly, nervously against a dry mouth. His heart hammers hard in his chest and he looks across at all of the people congregated here, back at _her_ in particular. Her smile of understanding is soft, her nod equally gentle. He sees the pride in her eyes. His own smile is tremulous, his nerves plain for all to witness.

"Are we ready to proceed?" a voice gently interrupts his jumbling thoughts and he turns his head towards it.

"Yes Father, we are." he answers softly and he looks back to his companion. Her eyes are misty behind the veil that she wears. She's wearing her grandmother's dress and it has been specially prepared and laundered for today. It's a little bit too big for her but he doesn't mind, she looks beautiful anyway. The scent of the violets in her bouquet tickles his senses.

_Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?_

_I do._

_And do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?_

_I do. _

He has twenty four hours alone with her before he has to leave. He's newly signed up and on the one hand he knows there are all kinds of career possibilities out there for him, prospects with the chance to return home a hero. On the other he's terrified, what if he never returns? What if he drowns in the sea of mud that they say are the battlefields of France?

* * *

><p>She clings to the dull green serge of his jacket and she stares up at him with big brown sorrowful eyes.<p>

"Keep safe my love." she whispers. He sees the fine sheen of tears in those eyes fighting with the bravado. She's not the only one bidding her loved one farewell; around them hundreds of couples and families are doing the same thing. There's a brass band playing a merry patriotic tune on the quay, designed to boost the morale of everyone present but all it does is hide the sense of fear. How many of them will return to their loved ones, how many will return whole and in one piece?

"Listen to me Sarah…if anything should happen to me…I don't want you to mourn…I want you to get on with your life, be happy, find someone new and marry them. You have my blessing to do that." his gaze sharpens on her face and he watches her eyes widen with horror.

"We've been married but a day Johnny, why would you say such a thing?" she breathes.

"I'm being practical darlin' that's all. Just promise me that you will?" she stands on tiptoe and she kisses him. He clings to her, feeling her desperation in every pore. He blinks as she pulls away and her own expression is just as vehement.

"You always were the practical sort but if it will make you happy then alright, I promise but we both know that it'll be an empty one because this war will be over by Christmas and you'll be back home in my arms again." she tells him confidently. He smiles softly. The war has been raging in Europe for close to three years now so he doubts he'll be back home then but it's good to hope all the same.

"Your words to God's ear," he whispers. He turns his head as the ship's horn sounds.

"I have to go." he tells her and those tears that she'd been trying to hold back suddenly overflow and slide down her cheeks. He swallows and hugs her tightly one last time; she rubs her cheek against his uniform jacket. He kisses her once more and then he's walking with the others from his regiment along the gangplank. He waves as he boards the ship and even though she tries to keep her eyes on him, he's quickly swallowed up by the swell of humanity around him.

"I love you." she whispers, raising her hand to wave.

He fights his way to the front and his eyes search for her but it's useless. All of those upturned faces look like his Sarah.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Pink House, Bristol, 2008.<strong>_

"I never saw her again." Mitchell confesses. George stares at him in stunned disbelief. Mitchell frowns at him and takes another swig of his beer.

"What?" he enquires and George gives a quick shake of his head and looks at his friend again.

"I'm still trying to get my head around the fact that you were…_are_ a married man." Mitchell shakes his head as he puts his bottle on the cluttered coffee table. He's rather pissed, hence the bout of secret sharing he's currently indulging in.

"No I'm not…not anymore, she died years ago…forty years ago I think." he answers. He sits forwards and pulls his fingers through his untidy unkempt hair and then scratches his head.

"But you were _married_ Mitchell…" George squeaks and Mitchell regards him, blinking slowly.

"So? It was what you did at the time. Young blokes like me heading off to war filled with heart pumping patriotism, being led blindly into conflict like sheep. We had to do our bit for King and Country and all of that. She was my sweetheart, I was of an age so we did…" he shrugs once more.

"Did you love her?" George asks in a soft curious voice and Mitchell sighs.

"What is so…_fascinating_ about whether I loved her or not, of course I did."

"Then why didn't you go back for her, after the War was over…after…."

"Herrick recruited me into his own version of hell? I thought about it but it was just easier, _kinder_ to let her think that I was missing, one of the known only to God soldiers that you read about, that you hear about. I mean her family were staunch Catholics, the once a day, twice on a Sunday type, could you just _imagine_ their reaction if I'd shown up on their doorstep in the state that I am now, could you?" he shakes his head again and he reaches for his beer bottle once more.

"They would never have understood." he mutters and takes another mouthful of beer.

"What was she like…what was her name?" Mitchell slides a sideways look at him. He finishes his mouthful and lowers the bottle slightly.

"Sarah…her name was Sarah Margaret Frances O'Connell." he smiles reminiscently. George blinks.

"Wow, that's quite a mouthful." he murmurs.

"It was and she hated it, especially when her mam stood on the doorstep bellowing it up and down the street when it was time for her to come in for dinner or to help with the babies. She had seven brothers and sisters." he sits back again, his eyes soft and misty with memories.

"I was six years old the first time I saw her and I think it was then that I decided that she was the one for me. She'd look down her nose at me, all but told me I was no better than the shite on the bottom of her boots but I was smitten. I wore her down by the time I was sixteen. By then I'd sprouted a good few inches, put on some weight and she decided she liked that and we were pretty steady from then on in." his smile briefly widens.

"And when you signed up and went to war, you got married."

"We were engaged and saving up, the war was just an incentive." he shrugs restlessly.

"What do you think you would've done if you hadn't run into Herrick?" Mitchell gives pause. He looks back at George.

"I probably would've been blown to smithereens like those other poor bastards out there or failing that, returned to Dublin, back to Sarah. Raise a brood of kids, the usual." he frowns and lifts the bottle to his lips once more. He stares ahead and George just knows that he's wondering about the _what if _part.

"Didn't you ever get curious about her after….you know…wonder what she did with her life?"

"In the early days, when I was struggling to come to terms with my new life then yeah I did, I mean who wouldn't be? but that was just the transition happening. I was shedding my old skin for the new life ahead of me, such as it was. After that then no…I didn't." he confesses. He frowns and puts the empty bottle beside the other ones on the coffee table. He briefly buries his head in his hands for a moment or two and when he lifts it again he regards George with bleary bloodshot eyes.

"Christ I shouldn't drink so much, it's when I get this pissed that I get so stupidly fucking maudlin." he gets to his feet and sways. George continues to watch him.

"Want another one?" Mitchell asks him but George shakes his head and holds his own half full one aloft.

"You're about three ahead of me but thanks all the same" he mutters as Mitchell totters unsteadily towards the kitchen.

* * *

><p><em><strong>London, November 2010.<strong>_

He doesn't know why he's here but he feels somehow that he must. All around him there are preparations going on for the parade planned at the weekend. He pauses and stares up at the tall white marble statue. He wants it to help; to help him remember him or to at least allow him to finally be able to forgive himself about what he did, about what Mitchell asked him to do.

_I'm doing this because I love you._

_I know._

Mitchell always used to go a bit quiet around this time of the year. He'd see the poppies on sale in the various shops and at the hospital and a frown would wrinkle his brow a bit making him look just a little more intimidating than usual. George guesses that he had his own memories to call upon around the anniversary without the visual ones in front of him. A sudden movement catches the corner of his eye and he turns his head. There's a man standing about six feet away from him and he's in the process of lowering what looks to be a very fancy camera. He's staring at the monument with a pensive expression on his face. George watches him and his eyes widen. His mouth drops open.

_Oh my fucking God._

He wonders whether he's hallucinating or someone is playing the meanest, cruellest trick known to man and werewolf.

He is the absolute walking image of Mitchell.

* * *

><p>George pants as the breath whistles out of his lungs and he feels his knees weaken. He grabs onto the barrier in front of him for support and holds on tight as his vision darkens around the edges. He gasps in a lungful of air.<p>

"Excuse me, are you alright?" he turns his head, his eyes wide behind his glasses and he looks at him. He's standing right beside him, a frown of concern on his face and he feels his hand resting gently between his shoulder blades.

He has an Irish accent and George feels like passing out for real now. He nods rapidly.

"You don't look it; do you need to sit down?" George makes a monumental effort to pull himself together.

"No…I'm….I'll…be fine, thank you." his words are slightly breathless and he can't help but stare at him some more. The stranger with Mitchell's face looks down at himself before looking back at George.

"Is there something the matter?" he enquires and George shakes his head.

"No…no…nothing's the matter except you _really_ look like someone I used to know." he confesses and he sees the flare of surprise in the other man's eyes.

"Really?" This time George nods, his head feels like it's on a spring instead of its regular steady, not as bendy neck.

"Yeah, you look a _lot_ like him." Like a walking, talking Irish speaking clone of the man. The man regards George curiously.

"Well I suppose it's true when people say that everyone has a clone somewhere." he replies with a slight smile. George stares at him. He even sounds the same as him. It is _eerie_. He watches as he lifts his camera to his eye and angles it back towards the Cenotaph and takes another picture. He lowers it and regards George again.

"So, is he here, this friend of yours who looks like me?" he enquires.

"No…umm…he died…unexpectedly, last month." he explains and he sees his eyes darken with sympathy.

"I'm sorry to hear that." he answers sincerely and George can't shake off that odd déjà vu kind of feeling he's experiencing right now.

"Are you working on a project?" he asks suddenly and the man blinks.

"I beg your pardon?"

George points at his camera.

"Your camera…it doesn't look like something a tourist would bring so I was wondering whether you're working on something…for work…or university…" his words drain away as awkwardness fills him. Mitchell had that effect on him too he seems to remember. Sometimes a look could and often did reduce him to bumbling idiocy and or complete and utter silence. The stranger looks down at it.

"Oh...this is personal, something I wanted to do for my granddad. He died earlier in the year and his dad was lost in the Great War so when my gran found out I was coming to London on business, she asked whether I'd come here and take a picture of the Cenotaph for her in his memory so here I am, the dutiful grandson that I am." he flashes a smile at him and once more George is struck by his resemblance to Mitchell. They have the same shaped brown eyes, the same untidy dark curls, and the same tall narrow hipped frame that lets him wear skinny jeans and leather jackets without looking like a complete and utter idiot. A single thought then occurs to him. Memories of a drunken conversation held in beloved pink painted house in Bristol.

_No. _

_Could he be…? No, it's too weird and coincidental even for someone like him._

_But could he really be?_

_Christ that would be like living in an episode of The Twilight Zone. _He waits to see if he can hear the theme tune begin in his head.

"Y…your Great Grandfather…the one you lost in the…Great War?" the stranger smiles at him as he opens the satchel that had been strapped around his body.

"Sergeant John Mitchell, lost somewhere between Arras and Passchendaele in 1917 according to my family." the stranger supplies and George's fingers grip the barrier he's still holding onto with inhuman strength.

_I will not pass out; I will not without a doubt pass out. No way, no way but holy fucking shit!_ It screams unrelentingly through his already scrambled brain. This is turning out to be the most surreal day of his entire life.

Cue the Twilight Zone music. He clears his throat.

"Lost?"

"Missing. He was presumed dead. The thing was, he never knew that he had a son. Apparently my great gran said that she found out after he'd left for France. She wrote to him to tell him but the letter either went missing or he was already gone because he didn't respond and it wasn't long afterwards that she got the telegram saying he was missing in action, presumed dead."

_Oh my God, if only you knew._

"So what happened?" George asked curiously. The stranger shrugs.

"She raised my granddad by herself; she never remarried even though that was the commonly done thing back then. She kept a photo of John on the mantelpiece and she'd talk to it every day according to my granddad. She loved him that much, she called him her Johnny."

"How sad." George breathes. The stranger regards him.

"I…have a picture….if you'd like to see it?" George's eyes widen.

"I would really like to, thanks." he replies honestly and he watches him open the satchel again, sees how he fumbles with too many things and not enough hands.

"Here…" he volunteers and gently takes the camera from him. He smiles his thanks and takes out a plastic folder.

"Listen…it's a bit…_weird_ standing out here talking like this…" George turns his head and he sees the familiar logo of a McDonalds nearby.

"How about we grab a cup of coffee and you can show me your pictures and we can talk a little more…uninterrupted?" he waits, half expecting him to rebuff him. The stranger pauses and regards him for a moment as if weighing up his options. Then he nods.

"That's a good idea actually." he closes his satchel and shoves the folder under one arm. George hands him back his camera.

"Thanks…I don't even know your name."

"It's George, George Sands" he replies with a small smile.

"I'm John Mitchell…the fourth one to go by that name" he replies and George rocks back slightly on his heels.

_And the hits keep on coming._

* * *

><p>John looks up at him as he places the paper coffee cup down in front of him. He murmurs his thanks and looks down at the plastic folder on the table in front of him.<p>

He then looks at George.

"This has turned out to be the oddest day." He confesses and George barely restrains from rolling his eyes.

_Oh you have no idea how odd_.

"I don't normally agree to have coffee with someone I've just met off the street, no offence."

"Oh, please none taken, it's the same for me too. I guess I must just have that kind of face." John flashes a quick smile at him. He reaches for his folder and he opens it. George holds his breath and watches curiously as he takes the photographs out.

"Here, that's my great grandfather on his wedding day" he pushes the copy of the photograph across to George and he gingerly picks it up. His heart thumps in his chest and his mouth goes dry when he recognises Mitchell. He's standing beside his bride, his Sarah he seems to remember her name being, stiff and proud in his uniform and unsmiling _no change there then._ His hair is short and slicked back, his uniform immaculate. He pushes it back to John and glances up at him.

"You look exactly like him" he comments and a slight smile tilts the corner of his mouth.

"So I've been told. My dad couldn't get over it, he was in Bristol last year on business and he swears he saw my twin in the city centre." he slowly shakes his head, missing George's wide-eyed look of shock. That hadn't been his twin, he'd been his….he shakes his head slightly. He's not going to go there; this has been a weird enough day as it is.

"Like you said, I must just have that kind of face." George looks at him and he wonders how Annie would react to seeing this John Mitchell.

It wouldn't be pretty he thinks.

"So when do you head back to Dublin?" George asks. John's head snaps around and he regards him quizzically.

"How did you know I was from Dublin?" he enquires curiously and for a second George's brain short circuits when he realises he's made a telling faux pas.

"Oh…ummm…your accent, I used to work with someone from Dublin, I recognised your accent." He fumbles feeling the tips of his ears turning red. John smiles at him.

"Oh yeah? Which part or didn't they say?"

"Didn't say, just said he was from Dublin that's all." he answers quickly feeling hideously exposed and embarrassed.

"Ah right. I'm back tonight, flight leaves at seven." he answers.

* * *

><p>She's waiting for him at the train station. Her coat barely meets around her middle and he's glad to see her. He disembarks and goes to her and he hugs her long and hard before feeling a distinct kick in his midriff. It makes him pull back and look down at her stomach with a frown on his face.<p>

"I don't see you for two days and all I get is a kick in the belly for my trouble." he moans good naturedly. Then he smiles and rubs her pregnant belly.

"I think she's missed you and she's reminding you that she's here." Nina replies.

"You still think it's a girl then?" he slings an arm across her shoulders as they begin to walk out of the station.

"I'm convinced my love," she replies with a smile. He just smiles back at her. Nina's smile fades when she sees the faraway look on her lover's face.

"Everything okay George? How was the trip, did it help in any way?" Once outside he pauses and he looks down at her.

"I think it did actually." He thinks of John Mitchell and a little shiver runs up and down his spine.

It's funny how a life can go full circle sometimes.

**FIN.**


End file.
